The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the ominous stain.
“Wounded?” he inquired sharply.
“Some.” Then he added, after a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, guess I’m done.”
The ranchman spoke rapidly. For the moment at least his weakness seemed to have passed, and the weariness to have gone out of his eyes and voice. He strained eagerly, his eyes alight and bloodshot. The whisky had given him momentary courage, momentary strength; the drawn lines of rapidly draining life had smoothed out of his young cheeks.
“Here, listen,” he cried, almost fiercely. “I’m beat. I know. But––but I want to tell you things. You needn’t to notice that hole in my back.” He writhed painfully. “Guess they––they got my lung or––or somethin’. Y’see, it’s the James gang. Some of ’em are”––a spasm of pain shot athwart his face as he hesitated––“’bout three miles back ther’––”
At this point a terrible fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood trickled into the corners of his mouth. Minky understood. He dispatched one of the bystanders for some brandy, while he knelt down to the man’s support. At once the drooping body sagged heavily upon his arm; but when the paroxysm had passed the weight lightened, and the dying man hurried on with his story, although his voice had lost more than half of its former ring.
“Ther’ ain’t much time,” he said, with something like a gasp. “He’s run off my stock, an’ set my hay an’ the corrals afire. He––he got us when we was roundin’––roundin’ up a bunch o’ steers. Y’see––y’see, we was in––in the saddle.”
Again he paused. This time his breath came in gasps and deep-throated gurglings. He struggled on, however, stumbling and gasping with almost every second word.
“We put up a––scrap––good. An’––an’ both––my boys was––was dropped cold. After I––I emptied––my gun––I––I hit––the trail for here. Then I––got it good. Say––”
Once more he was interrupted by a fit of terrible coughing. And the moment it eased the storekeeper held the brandy, which one of the boys had brought, to his blood-flecked lips. The poor fellow’s end was not far off. The onlookers knew it. Minky knew there was practically nothing to be done for him. All these men had witnessed the approach of death in this form too often before. A lung pierced by a bullet! They could do nothing but look on curiously, helplessly and listen carefully to the story he was trying to tell.